enlist you?"

With a sudden burst of primitive anger, Dyck got to his feet, staggering
a little, but grasping the fatal meaning of the whole thing. He looked
Erris Boyne in the eyes. His own were bloodshot and dissipated, but
there was a look in them of which Boyne might well take heed.

Boyne had not counted on Dyck's refusal; or, if it had occurred to him,
the remedy, an ancient one, was ready to his fingers. The wine was
drugged. He had watched the decline of Dyck's fortunes with an eye of
appreciation; he had seen the clouds of poverty and anxiety closing in.
He had known of old Miles Calhoun's financial difficulties. He had
observed Dyck's wayside loitering with revolutionists, and he had taken
it with too much seriousness. He knew the condition of Dyck's purse.

He was not prepared for Dyck's indignant outburst.

"I tell you this, Erris Boyne, there's none has ever tried me as you have
done! What do you think I am--a thing of the dirty street-corner,
something to be swept up and cast into the furnace of treason? Look you,
after to-day you and I will never break bread or drink wine together.
No--by Heaven, no! I don't know whether you've told me the truth or not,
but I think you have. There's this to say--I shall go from this place to
Dublin Castle, and shall tell them there--without mentioning your name--
what you've told about the French raid. Now, by God, you're a traitor!
You oughtn't to live, and if you'll send your seconds to me I'll try and
do with you as I did with Leonard Mallow. Only mark me, Erris Boyne,
I'll put my sword into your heart. You understand--into your filthy
heart!"